Lizard Radio

by Pat Schmatz

  At the privo, I close the door. My stomach is shaking. That wink from Sully. Does it mean that she’s thinking about our kiss? Or maybe she’s just playing it breeze, showing me how? I try giving a Sully-style grin to the privo wall, and it stretches my face in an odd way.

  “Lizard, are you coming out of there, ever?”

  I walk up to CounCircle with Sully and Rasta and Tylee, who joins us on the way. I do not watch Sully’s every move, and I do not listen to Sully’s pitch and timbre for every tiny clue. Not much, anyway.

  As we get up from the breakfast table, Aaron tiptoes behind Sully and puts his finger on his lips to shush us. He covers Sully’s eyes, and she smiles, and my stomach sinks. Aaron’s hands are so big. They cover her face. His shoulders are so wide. Sully turns and punches Aaron in the ribs, and he doubles over as if she’s mortally wounded him.

  “Our first shiny Sunday at CropCamp,” she says. “No class, double fields, and double Cleezies. How lucky can we get?”

  Aaron’s cave-tunnel dark eyes glow as he straightens, flashing his toothy smile. Tylee and Rasta and I follow them out of the Mealio. Aaron has a way of walking like water tumbling over rocks. If I T’d, could I walk like that? Would my shoulders be that big? Is it too late to transition?

  I take a side trip to the privo, try to settle myself down. I’m late to Sunday morning Cleezies. Machete hasn’t started to talk yet, but everyone’s all settled on the Pavilion benches. Rasta, Sully, and Tylee sit together. I meet eyes with Nona in the back row and look at the empty spot on her left. She nods. I make my way back there, pretending not to see the others’ quizzical looks. Nona doesn’t say anything to me. We don’t even look at each other.

  Machete leads us in the chant: Come from One. Live in the light. Return to One. The voices blend to a melodic hum. It circles around my throat, squeezing. I look down at the rocks, shocked at the stinging behind my eyes.

  “The thing that causes us pain in our lives,” says Machete, “is our insistence on our uniqueness. Our belief that we’re different, separate, each the center of our own little universe. As you grow into adult community, contemplate the paradox of separation from the One. Of course we’re all different — that’s the challenge. When we mistake difference for separation, whether we think we’re better than the rest or worse, we find trouble. Study the ways in which you hold yourself separate. See where the pain is. Then study the feeling of being together. Seek your peace.”

  She nods to Saxem beside her. He stands and begins plucking the strings. A soft slow run of individual notes dances across the rocky floor, gradually building into something so complex, I can hardly believe that it comes out of a single construction of wood and wire. The sound comes from inside and out, from the trees and the rocks, a floating transport of melody.

  “Close your eyes, and breathe deeply.”

  Machete’s voice is low, barely carrying over the music. I close my eyes immediately. I breathe in the notes and the rocks and the circle and Machete’s voice.

  “All the way in, hold, then all the way out.”

  Just like Sheila taught me. And Korm. My breath still shakes a bit. The music quiets down to a delicate run of individual notes, and Saxem begins to sing.

  We all come from the One. We separate like drops of rain, like flakes of snow, like crystals of ice. We melt and return. We run to the river, run to the sea. Crashing waves and trickle of stream, rushing in the light of life. We come from One, we return to One.

  The melody and words flow with the images. He taps the wooden body of the instrument three times, and then starts again. Other voices join him. Everyone sings. I open my eyes. Some comrades still have eyes closed, others open. The surround of melody vibrates deeply in my chest, playing my heart like an instrument. I sing, my voice so intertwined with the others that I can’t hear myself as separate.

  What if I really am from the One? No saurians, no lizards, just human like everyone else. Not a dragon. Just Kivali, killing myself with daydreams, holding myself separate, causing my own pain.

  The song comes to a slow stop, and we all hold silence. Machete speaks again.

  “We have a slower, more relaxed day today. Move with your comrades in the fields. Observe the ways in which you hold yourself separate, the ways in which you think you’re unique. How do these separations serve you? How do they hurt you? We meet again tonight at the usual time. Come from One.”

  “Live in the light.”

  “Return to One.”

  The fields had been dry, and they sucked up the puddles, but the soil is still wet. Rasta and I plant spinach. Squatting is too hard so we just crawl around on our knees, and our coveralls and gloves are filthy muddy. She matches my silence, and we work easily together. She calls me Lizard. She knows that I’m a bender. All my life, I’ve thought these things matter. What if they don’t matter?

  My Grade One teacher turned me in for gender testing, and I scored fifty-two. If I’d come in at fifty-three or higher, transition to boy would have been mandatory. Hormone blockers would have started right away, with surgeries and male hormones coming later. But anywhere from forty-eight to fifty-two was midrange, and therefore iffy. It’s your choice, they said. You’re free to choose, but if you don’t pass post-decision gender training within three years, we make the choice for you.

  I had to choose by my tenth birthday. By that time I’d been learning with Korm for almost two years. She’d helped me with the fear, helped me live in the world with the Radio as my guide. Korm won’t teach anyone on artificials, not even hormone blockers or boosts. Sheila is opposed to all medical intervention. The choice was mine, but I was a child. Now, far away from the advice of Sheila and Korm, I’m beginning to understand the consequences.

  PDGT three times a week was hellish as they tried to train me into something properly female. Approaching thirteen I was the oldest kid there, still not getting “girl” right — and not wanting to. One of the kinder trainers pity-passed me. I’m not sure why.

  I saw plenty of kids like Sully’s cousin come and go, passing through PDGT in six weeks. If I had T’d, I would’ve passed much faster. They would have been teaching me to be like Aaron. I’d be bigger now, and broader, with a deep voice.

  I wouldn’t be Sully’s piemate, though. I might be a flirt toy in the opposite-side Pieville — if I were lucky. I wouldn’t be able to hear her breathe in the night, and she wouldn’t shout me awake every morning.

  Every choice sets off a world of possibilities.

  Every choice cuts off a world of possibilities.

  I glance over at the cucumbers. Sully is midfield, picking with Aaron. I don’t think that she’s a samer. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to T. It’s too late to do it by the regs, but I’ve heard there are other ways.

  In evening Cleezies, we again lay our palms open and receive a morsel.

  “We call them kickshaws,” says Machete. “They are the taste of camp, of completely sheltered camaraderie and the freedom that comes when all are safe.”

  Sully stands on my left, and my entire left side vibrates and tingles. Apparently I have extra Sully-sensors planted on my human skin that go crazy every time she’s close by. I want Sully’s touch more than I want the kickshaw, and I want the kickshaw a lot.

  “Choose a comrade with whom you have not yet spoken,” says Machete. “Choose by eye contact, and stand face to face. Do this without words, now.”

  Sully moves away, leaving a hollow of empty space on my left. Someone taps my shoulder. It’s the small blond boy, the one who looks like Rasta. He’s soft-skinned, and his curls form a ring of gold around his head.

  “Now,” says Machete. “Enjoy together.”

  The boy reaches out and sets his own kickshaw on my lower lip. I pull the sweetness in. He lifts the kickshaw off my palm and puts it in his mouth. We stare at each other, not quite chewing. Prolonging. My eyelids weigh heavy but I can’t look away. He has become beautiful. He glows in the firelight. His eyes are half-lidded. I feel me and
him at the same time, as if I’m both of us. The kickshaw dissolves, beautiful kickshaw, spreading down my throat and around my heart. Bits of crunch hide in my teeth, and I dig them out with my tongue. So does the beautiful boy. The delicious drape of group silence holds us all close. I find a whole new world in his dark blue eyes.

  “Return to your seats, please.”

  He nods at me, and I smile in return. We shuffle back across the rocks, and I miss him until Sully lands next to me. My left side lights up again, and my chest churns with a new cascade of longing. Nothing in my life with Sheila prepared me for any of this.

  “It’s been a good first week,” says Machete. “As we come to know one another better, we can begin our true work together. Please return to your pies with no conversation. We conclude our Sundays in absolute silence.”

  We file out the door. Nobody speaks. I’m not complying; I just am. I’m alla the One. We move like a slow-spreading liquid into the dusky dense green, and the sky, low and purple, holds our hush. Me and Sully, and the blond boy and Rasta and Tylee and even Nona and Lacey and Aaron and Micah and Sabi and everyone. We are us. I love us.

  Sully walks shoulder to shoulder with me. CropCamp is good. So good. If my life at home were like this, I wouldn’t care about Lizard Radio. I’d only want this.

  I JERK OUT OF a deep sleep, disoriented and groggy. I’ve been dreaming again, and I find it unnerving. Sheila says that I don’t dream like regular people because of Lizard Radio — it serves the same function. Maybe that’s true, because since I’ve been here and not tuning in, my nights are a whirligig of images and voices. I wake to a whisper of dragon claws and an aching aftertaste.

  I blink at the dust motes in the slant of morning sun. The birds are on a crazy holler fest, like they can’t believe the sun has risen again. My heart hurts. I close my eyes and look back, trying to trace the details of the dream-story.

  The komodo wasn’t silver, and it wasn’t small. It was a full-size, fully alive Komodo dragon, and it walked with Korm in a barren shadowed world. No birds or trees, no people. Just Korm and the dragon and me, trailing behind. The only sound was the dragging of the dragon’s claws each time it lifted a foot. No matter how fast I walked I was still behind, separate, different. I called out, and they heard nothing.

  No wonder people talk about dreams all the time. It’s like living a whole other life behind the sleep curtain. You wake up, and it’s still all over you. I turn to face my real-world komodo. It stares at the door. I pick it up, sniff it. No smell. No movement. It’s an inanimate metal toy. A symbol.

  Sheila gave it to me on Decision Day, my tenth birthday. For growing past my fear, she said. For keeping my core self intact. From the moment I opened the box, I have carried it with me always. I was never apart from it until I came here. Here, it spends its days on the shelf, waiting for me to come back.

  It’s so beautifully crafted. The artist captured everything Komodo — the skin, the claws, the curve of the powerful tail, even the unique movement. It is the lizardest of the lizards. Keeping my core self intact. Keeping myself separate.

  The gong rings.

  “Hellooooo, CropCamp!” Sully yells.

  I set the komodo down, and the day begins. Jokes and a tangle of nervous-happy skitter with Sully up the path. At CounCircle, we have a brief morning meditation. In the quiet, the dream-dragon’s claws scrape again in the back corner of my mind. I don’t like it.

  Come from One. Live in the light. Return to One.

  I speak the words together with my comrades. We file into the Mealio for a good breakfast, in community. My job is to learn, and to work in the fields, and to live in the light. Be a good comrade and citizen. Even Sheila said that in her inflow. She did.

  After breakfast and before Block One, I run down to my slice. I pick up the komodo and look it in the eye.

  “Everything is different here,” I whisper to its pointed face. “I can do it without you.”

  I crawl to the door, unzip from the bottom corner, and poke my head out. Look and listen. Nobody’s around. No one but the birds and that chippie over there, perched on a fallen log.

  I hold up my fingers in front of my face. I appreciate the rounded, short-cut nails. Using that human hand, I dig a hole just outside my door. The dirt is hard-baked, and it packs in under my nails. I let the komodo help me, using its sharp metal snout to scrape deeper to where the earth is cool and soft. Once we’ve formed a rounded hole, as deep as my fingers are long, I set the komodo at the bottom. It looks at home there, a watch-dragon in the darkness, taking care of the underground while I live in the light.

  “Stay here,” I whisper. “Guard my door.”

  I cover it. First a layer of damp, cool dirt that will feel good on its lizard skin. Then a dry, dusty layer. Then pine needles, carefully scattered over. I fuss with the pine needles, moving and smoothing them so that they look normal, untouched. I stand and wipe my dirty hands on my coveralls and head for the spigot.

  Nona steps around the pie, suddenly blocking my path. She must have been right there, just out of sight, spying on me. Listening in. Anger sparks in my chest.

  “Can I talk to you?” She bitter-spits the words, and they’re sharper and hotter than my anger. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you sit next to me at a meal sometime, and maybe say a few words to me? Act like we’re friendly?”

  Her narrowed eyes are shiny, a little bit wet. Her voice, for all of its heat, is slightly strangly.

  “Ms. Mischetti says I’ll get a culpa if I don’t start connecting with community. She says I have to engage. I can’t risk a culpa in the first month.”

  “She’d give you a culpa for that?”

  “Yes. She would. Will you do it?”

  “Um, okay. Yeah. I’ll do that.”

  “Tell all your little friends that I asked you to. I don’t care. That way you won’t risk your standing by having them think that you like me. But please, try to make it look real when Ms. Mischetti’s around. Just once in a while.”

  She steps back into her slice. I wait.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asks.

  “You. So we can walk up together.”

  IN BLOCK TWO, RASTA and I swelter in the cucumbers. Sweat drips in my eyes. I forgot my gloves, so fresh dirt chunks up under my fingernails and seals into the creases of my hands. Rasta has her gloves, so she pulls back the prickly leaves and I tug the cucumbers loose. It’s best to pick them small — whoever picked this row last time didn’t do a good job. Some of them are bigger than my hand. I toss them thunkety into the bucket.

  “I’ve been dying for a chance to talk to you alone,” says Rasta. “It’s a strong alliance thing.”

  She straightens onto her knees, takes off a glove, and pulls something out of her pocket. A light brown nugget. A kickshaw.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  My voice pitches loud, and we both look for Micah. He’s over on the tomato green talking to Saxem.

  “Where’d you get it?” I whisper.

  “Last night,” she says. “I pocketed.”

  “How’d you do that? Didn’t your partner notice?”

  “No. I partnered with some Friday guy, and he wasn’t even looking at me. I think he was looking at Lacey’s bum. Who did you partner with?”

  “That Monday boy who looks like you. Rasta, why’d you do it? Didn’t you want it?”

  “Of course I did. But maybe Sabi’s right, maybe they’re drugging us.”

  “Sabi’s lunar.”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean she’s wrong. Don’t you think it’s a drug? I mean, doesn’t it make you feel different?”

  “Good different. I like it. What are you going to do with it? Do you want to give it to me?”

  Rasta laughs and shakes her head. She puts it back in her pocket, and we scoot down to the next plant. I kind of want to tackle her and grab the kickshaw.

  “Rasta. Why am I your strong alliance? Why not Tylee, or Sully?”

&n
bsp; She sits back on her heels and gives me the bird-tip of her head.

  “For one thing, I know that you won’t tell.”

  “How do you know? I love the kickshaws. I might even take it away from you.”

  “No, I trust you. You’ve got a way about you. My auntie, she says that we all have different vibrational frequencies, and they resonate or they don’t. I like Tylee a lot and she’s honest and true, but she has a different pitch. And Sully . . .”

  I so much want to know what she thinks about Sully. Does everyone think she’s amazing? How can they not? I can’t even see straight when she’s around.

  “You can see the light around Sully from a mile off, and everybody’s drawn to it. Me too. But it’s like — I don’t know. Like she knows that it’s there, and she turns so you can see it from the best angle, but in that turn you can’t see what’s behind the light. Whereas you, Lizard, it’s like you’ve got some high-rev power and don’t even know what you’ve got, so you don’t show or shield any of it. And it vibes with me, and that’s why I trust you.”

  I’ve seen behind Sully’s lights. Back in the woods, she let me look without anything shining in my eyes. I can’t tell Rasta that, though. Strong alliance or no, what’s between me and Sully is private.

  “So why do you like me?” she asks.

  “It’s your voice. It makes me happy every time you talk.”

  “Everyone says that about my voice.” She’s disappointed. “That’s an outer, so it doesn’t count.”

  “Yes, it does. It’s not just the sound, it’s what you say with it, and how. It’s — I guess it’s like your auntie says. Frequency or something. Without the inner, your voice would just be unusual. Not — special.”

  A very small, shy smile. She scoops out a hole, puts the kickshaw in, and covers it over. I pat the top of the mound, flattening it with my palm so it looks different from the other dirt.

  “I’ll come back for it,” I say. “When you’re not watching.”